


Be it here (that our pieces fall in place)

by maharetr



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Comfort, Gen, Happy Ending, Muteness, No Spoilers, Pre-Season/Series 02, canon-level racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 20:36:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15299538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maharetr/pseuds/maharetr
Summary: Gustav’s met a few tieflings in his time, but this is the first time he’s ever seen one look this terrified.





	Be it here (that our pieces fall in place)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set entirely pre-series.
> 
> Title from the quietly gorgeous Iron & Wine song 'Call it dreaming'. Music video is well worth a look: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BXC80ZXQhvQ.
> 
> Infinite thanks to M for the phenomenal, detailed beta. All mistakes are my own. See end of fic for more notes, but heads up for vague s2ep26 spoilers there and in any comments.

The circus is heading south when they come across the tiefling.

They're trying to keep ahead of the worst of the winter, but there’s a bite to the night air that keeps them all huddled together around the fire during dinner, and then sends most of them scurrying for the tents early, one eye on the encroaching clouds. 

Gustav had finished the dregs of his tea, half-asleep and resenting having to get up from the warm fire to go to his cold – but dry – tent, when Bo calls out the warning.

It’s the descending owl calls – a call for assistance, not an incursion alert, but Gustav picks up his little crossbow anyway, whistles a reply, and follows Bo’s call into the night.

Bo is standing a short distance from their ring of tents, and a few meters from a figure – a grubby tiefling with horns that curled around his ears. He’s clutching a similarly grubby blanket around himself.

 _Huh_. With Bo covering the tiefling and the treeline Gustav turns and surveys their campsite and the road and the grasslands beyond, listening intently. Rain clouds are rolling in from the east and bringing a bitterly cold wind, but everything in the immediate area is calm. The sparse woods behind him are filled with the unconcerned rustling of small creatures and night birds. If this were an ambush or some kind of trap, it was the most effective they’d ever been subjected to, and they’d been subjected to many.

Bo seems to have come to a similar conclusion; he’s got his crossbow still nocked, but it’s down by his side, relaxed in his grip.

“Are you injured?” Bo is asking. The tiefling stares at him, face creased in an uncomprehending frown.

Bo glances over as Gustav joins him. “Undead wards are intact,” Bo murmurs out the side of his mouth. “Walked over them without a flinch.” Then, louder and clearer, for the benefit of all three of them: “He came from the treeline.” Bo points northeast. “Scared the life out of me.” He chuckles, and smiles towards the tiefling. “I thought you were a ghost, friend.”

He’s trembling, hunched into his blanket and clutching it around his shoulders as tightly as his tail is wrapped around his legs. The tiefling’s eyes are black to Gustav’s darkvision, and he’s glancing between Bo and Gustav, his breaths misting in short, rapid gasps. Gustav’s met a few tieflings in his time, but this is the first time he’s ever seen one look this frightened.

“Do you speak Common?” Gustav asks, adding enough smile that it sounds less like an interrogation, he hopes. “Because I only know how to say _I’m sorry, I don’t speak Infernal_ in Infernal.”

The tiefling twitches his attention to Gustav, his mouth working soundlessly, and there’s comprehension there, although for which language, Gustav doesn’t know. Damn.

“Do you understand Common?” Bo offers. The tiefling jerks his attention back to Bo and nods.

Gustav sends Bo a silent thanks, and reaches out his free hand. “My name is Gustav, and this is Bo. You’ve stumbled across my circus. We have a fire, if you wanted to come warm yourself.”

The tip of the tiefling’s tail flicks uncertainly. He doesn’t relax his deathgrip on his blanket, but his tail loosens as he shuffles a step towards them, and then another. He’s close enough now that Gustav can see the detail of the blanket, and that it’s not a blanket at all, but something much thinner, closer to a sheet. And that sheet is maybe _all_ the tiefling is wearing. No wonder he’s shivering too hard to speak.

Gustav’s cloak is one of his old performance robes – patched and faded, and worn enough to relegate it to between-shows wear. It could stand to get a bit more dirty. He passes Bo the crossbow, shrugs off his robe and steps cautiously into the tiefling’s personal space. The tiefling hunches further in on himself and drops his gaze to what must be painfully cold bare feet.

“Here,” Gustav offers. He drapes the robe gently around the tiefling’s shoulders, and the tiefling loosens his grip on his sheet enough to take the robes into his fists. Gustav brushes his hand near the tiefling’s shoulder and points in the direction of the campfire. “This way.” 

Behind the tiefling’s back, Bo returns Gustav’s crossbow. _Ornna’s gonna fucking_ love _this_ , says his quirked eyebrow. Gustav shrugs _What else is there to do?_ and reaches over and squeezes Bo's shoulder. "Keep an eye out for...any other weirdness, I suppose."

Bo nods. "I'll let Kylre know at shift change."

~*~

The campsite is still, all the tents closed tight against the cold. The only splash of color is the low orange glow of the fire, and Gustav leads their visitor to it.

“Come sit down,” Gustav says. He adds a few more logs to the fire and swings the kettle back over the flames. It’s enough light to show that the tiefling is purple under all that grime, and his eyes are a bright, slightly unsettling red. Gustav glances down. There are scars criss-crossing the purple neck, continuing under the sheet covering his chest. They’re old and long-healed, so Gustav politely averts his gaze and checks the kettle, which is starting to steam.

Their visitor smells of body odour and dirt. Then again, it's winter and the circus is on the road – bathing happens the day before they hit town, if the town is lucky. It’s not like the tiefling stands out, but Gustav knows all too well the experience of being able to tune out weeks’ worth of his own grime and stink, until that sudden moment when all he could think about was scrubbing his skin to the bone. Gustav rather suspects that's going to kick in for the tiefling the moment he starts warming up.

Gustav gestures to the kettle over the fire and the water supply bucket next to it on the ground. “We have cloths, if you wanted to wipe yourself down some –" The tiefling is already nodding vigorously. “I’ll find you some clothes,” Gustav adds, nodding towards his tent.

The tiefling looks away with an embarrassed grimace, but Gustav makes his shrug casual; there’s a time for asking questions, and there’s a time for dealing with what’s in front of you, as his ma used to say. _Deal with what’s in front of you._ He goes and retrieves a change of clothes from his tent.

The tiefling heads behind the tent with the bucket. Gustav stokes the fire to properly boil water for tea, and just generally keeps an eye on where the tiefling is. This wasn’t an attack of any kind, clearly, but the circus hadn’t survived this long without adding caution to any kindness. Hope for the best, plan for the worst was something both he and Ornna were willing to agree on. Some of their takings are conspicuously stored on Gustav’s cart in a locked box, accordingly. The bulk of their actual money is sewn into cloth pouches the bottom of one of Maud’s treasured fabric scrap bins, locked in her vardo.

The tiefling returns mostly dressed, but with Gustav’s spare trousers and undergarments in his hand… oh, of course. Gustav wants to kick himself: the tiefling’s tail. 

In his other hand, the tiefling holds the bundled sheet well away from his body, like he doesn't want to be touching it. “I can take both of those,” Gustav offers. The sheet is wet and filthy, butGustav blinks.

“This is good quality linen,” he says, surprised. The tiefling shrugs. “I know someone who’d love to clean this up and make clothes out of it, if you really don’t want it.” The tiefling makes a shoving gesture with both hands. “Okay,” Gustav says. “Thank you.”

Gustav pours them tea, and the silence stretches as they sip from their mugs. The usual patter of welcoming intersecting travellers to the campfire, _Where're you going? Where've you been? How's the road been treating you?_ doesn’t apply here.

“Nice tattoos,” Gustav says, pointing to the red eye on the back of the tiefling’s hand. The tiefling cringes, and covers the tattoo with his other hand, clutching his mug with both hands now.

“Sorry,” Gustav murmurs, and takes a gulp of tea.

“We’re heading for Harrowthorpe," he says after a while. "It’s going to take us a few more days. You’re welcome to travel with us til then.”

The tiefling blinks, processes that, and relaxes some: he raises his face to Gustav’s and nods, slowly. Okay. Maybe this was going to work.

“Do you have a name?” Gustav asks.

The tiefling flinches, hunching in again on himself. _Dammit_. The tiefling’s gaze flicks searchingly around the campfire. His lips part, and then he gives a tiny, frightened shake of his head.

“It’s fine,” Gustav says before the tiefling can panic. “I mean, if you do spend more than a while with us, the circus will probably name you, because that’s how we roll.” He grins, aiming for a shared joke. “So you might want to come up with something yourself, unless you want us to find something embarrassing…”

The tiefling doesn’t return Gustav’s smile. His lips are working silently, trying to form words and failing. Or, not failing, but chanting under his breath. “Empty, empty, empty…” His breathing is starting to hitch.

“Oh, hey,” Gustav murmurs, startled, leaning forward to catch his eye, and then the first heavy splatters of rain start up. _Crap_. “C’mon,” he says, and leads the way to his tent.

Gustav ushers their new travelling companion inside as the rain starts in earnest, splattering heavily on the canvas. There’s not much in his tent – his bedroll, his bags, the circus’s ledgers and his satchel of writing paraphernalia– not much of financial value, anyhow. He likes his quills.

He takes a pillow and offers it to the tiefling to sit on. There’s a soft owl call, very close to the tent and just loud enough to carry over the rain. _Oh, for pity’s sake_.

“Everything’s fine,” he says aloud, pitching his voice to carry. And then more directly, to all three of them: “We’ll rustle you up a bedroll, and you can sleep in here, if you want.”

There’s more space in the main tent with Ornna and the twins, but inflicting Ornna on the tiefling -- or the tiefling on Ornna, for that matter -- seemed unfair in both directions. That could wait til morning.

The tiefling’s lips part uncertainly, and he frowns like he’s attempting to find words, but then offers a nod instead. He settles carefully on the pillow, wraps the robes closed around himself and draws his knees up close.

The polite rustling near the tent flap a few minutes later is entirely expected, but the person who unties the flap when Gustav calls a welcome is not. Ornna herself steps in, pulling a bedroll behind her.

“Hello there,” she says to the tiefling, softly, like she does when the horses are skittish. “I’m Ornna, I’m the brains around here.” The tiefling stares at her, and Gustav doesn’t know him well enough yet to know if that’s respect or fear in the slight drawback of his head, but the tiefling meets her gaze and nods slowly. She manoeuvres the bedroll onto position on the floor and starts loosening the knots.

“You got any family?” she asks. “Anyone we can try make contact with, let ‘em know you’re safe?”

Gustav is starting to recognise that flinch. The tiefling hunches tighter in on himself, biting his lip.

“Can you send out the brandy to the second watch?” Gustav asks, hoping to cut across the tiefling before the muttering starts again. “And tell Bo he can go to bed already; he doesn’t need to pull a double shift on a night like tonight.”

Ornna snorts. “I’ll _try_ telling him,” she says. “And the brandy’s already out.” She unfurls the roll into its blankets and an assortment of animal pelts.

“You’ll sleep like a king tonight,” she says kindly to the tiefling, and clambers back to her feet. The look she shoots Gustav over the tiefling’s head is more pointed.

“Thank you,” Gustav murmurs.

She leaves, and Gustav ties the flaps closed behind her, hoping to keep out most of the rain. The tiefling has pulled up one of the blankets around himself, and is, if anything, more hunched in on himself, staring up at the top of the tent, listening to the rain. Gustav doesn’t want to think what might have happened if the circus hadn’t camped here, or if the tiefling hadn’t been brave enough to approach them…

“Were you robbed?” Gustav asks quietly. This area isn’t too bad when it came to brigands, but it’s the best reason he can think of for someone to appear naked in the woods. The tiefling’s gaze flicks searchingly, not just looking around the tent, Gustav thinks, but searching internally too. _Did someone beat you?_ Gustav thinks, trying to that might account for the stolen speech, and these apparent memory holes, but _something’s_ happened to this guy, judging by the scars, and by – now that he can see better in the steady lamplight – the tiefling’s injured fingers.

Most of the tieflings Gustav’s met have had long, sharp fingernails, somewhere between a point of pride and mini weapons. This tiefling’s nails are torn down to the quick, and several are raw with open wounds. Gustav winces and digs out the medicine kit from his pack. He bandages the tiefling’s fingers as gently as he can, but distress still flickers across the tiefling’s face.

“It’s okay,” Gustav says. “It happens.” And he means getting robbed and being left for dead, and also means whatever has struck this person mute with secrets. There are a hundred and three things Gustav would rather not remember, and because everyone currently sleeping or pretending to sleep tonight in this circus had things they wanted to keep to themselves.

“You’re not even the only one who doesn’t talk around here,” he offers as they bed down. “You’re going to fit in just fine.”

~*~

The tiefling sleeps hard, buried under the blankets. He sleeps through Gustav easing out of the tent at first light, and still hasn’t moved when Gustav crawls back with the last of the porridge. 

“Hey,” Gustav calls, and when that doesn’t rouse a reaction, he gently nudges the tiefling’s foot. The tiefling’s body locks, and then he flails upright, eyes wide.

“Easy,” Gustav murmurs, and holds out the bowl like a peace offering. The tiefling stares around the tent, and then up at Gustav. “It’s okay,” Gustav says. “You came across our circus last night. It’s morning now.” He smiles. “Do you want breakfast?”

The tiefling doesn’t relax, exactly, but recognition softens his face, and he takes the bowl with a little jerky nod that Gustav interprets as thanks.

~*~

None of the crew says anything about the mostly-dressed tiefling standing by while Gustav takes down the tent. He knows those glances, though: Gustav has a new stray. Gustav and Bo are calm, goes the emotional weather reading. Ornna is displeased but not yet publically taking them to task, so it’s best to let it unfold as it almost always does: they gain a traveller for a few days, or until Ornna kicks them out. Very occasionally, they gain a crew member. Regardless, if it wasn’t hurting the circus, everyone’s business was their own.

Gustav clears space in the cart, and the tiefling curls up against the bedroll with a blanket and goes back to sleep almost as soon as they start moving. Going by the dark purple shadows under those eyes, Gustav isn’t surprised at all.

He's even less surprised when, less than an hour into the journey, there's an abrupt whimper behind him. The tiefling is too far back in the cart for Gustav to reach him, but the tiefling scrabbles his way out of the nightmare on his own, clawing the air and gasping.

Stopping the cart would bring the attention of the entire caravan, which is hopefully more than this warrants, and probably way more attention than the tiefling wants.

Gustav glances back. The tiefling is leaning over the side of the cart in that miserable sort of hunch that said he doesn’t know if he’s going to be sick or not. His breathing is ragged. Gustav gives the tiefling a few minutes and then calls over his shoulder, “You can come up and sit, if you want.” He pats the bench beside him. The tiefling clambers over and sits. His mouth is moving, and Gustav strains to hear the whisper.

“Empty…empty...empty,” the tiefling is rasping, a terrified litany directed down at his clenched fists.

“Hey,” Gustav calls softly. The tiefling twitches, but gulps in a breath and closes his mouth. “Empty you might be. But it’s not all bad – we’ve got shirts on our backs, we’ve had a hot breakfast, and –” He reaches into his jacket and snags a couple of copper pieces. “We’ve got coin in our pockets.” Gustav offers them, and the tiefling takes them, wonderingly.

“Inside left,” Gustav murmurs. “Inside right has a hole in it, beware of that.”

The tiefling feels around inside the robes. The coins vanish into the left side, and then he presumably feels the hole in the right, because his face softens into the ghost of a smile.

“There we go,” Gustav says. “There’re worse ways to start the day, is what I mean. Trust me, I’ve tried a lot of them, and nightmares notwithstanding, this...” He gestures, trying to take in the misty fields and the caravan of carts and horses behind them. “This is one of the better ways, I’ve found.”

That gets him a considering look. Gustav holds the tiefling’s red gaze. The tiefling’s lips part, and he shapes a word like he wants to speak, but nothing comes.

Gustav twists around and snags the bag that holds his writing kit. “Do you know how to write?” The tiefling seems to consider that, and then arches an eyebrow like he’s genuinely curious, too. Gustav tilts his head in the direction of the caravan. “Most of them in the circus don’t, but –” He fishes out a quill and one of their old summer flyers and passes them over before twisting back to dig out an ink pot.

The tiefling knows how to dip a quill, and holds it well even with bandaged fingers, but his hand hovers over the page for a long time. Gustav turns to look away over the grasslands and scrubby trees, giving him a little privacy. When he sneaks a glance a few minutes later, the tiefling has sketched – with a fair amount of accuracy – the view in front of them, from the tips of their horse’s ears out to the rise of the road in the mid-distance and the rounded shapes of the scruffy trees on the far horizon. No words, though. He passes the quill and the page back to Gustav with an almost apologetic, worried shrug.

“You’re a better artist than I am,” Gustav says, reflexively trying to ease the moment. “My brother was the portrait artist.” Among many other things, none of which needed exploring now. “He’d draw your portrait deft as can be, as real or as weird as you wanted. He kept trying to teach me, but I just didn’t have the knack for it. Good for making people laugh, I suppose, but that’s not how I _want_ to amuse people, you know?”

Gustav rambles on, and the tiefling listens quietly and interestedly, a little smile relaxing his face as Gustav spins the tale. The silence after that is companionable and the tiefling closes his eyes and tilts his face up into the morning sun.

~*~

The circus pulls off the road in the afternoon to rest the horses.

The tiefling hesitantly starts towards where Desmond is building a fire, but Gustav tugs him lightly away. “Food’ll be ready in a while,” Gustav says. “But there’s things we should probably see to first.”

The tiefling follows him willingly enough back along the haphazard line of horses and carts to Maud’s vardo.

“Hey, Maud,” Gustav calls. “I’ve brought you a treat.” He winks in the tiefling’s direction.

“Is this how many holey socks you’ve been hoarding for me, because you can darn your own damn –.” Maud sticks her head out the window. “Oh, you’re _gorgeous_.” She flings open the door and clatters down the steps. “You’re the new one, aren’t you?” The tiefling's eyes go wide, staring at this halfling dressed in a riot of colors.

She jumps down from the wagon and approaches, hands reaching up. “May I…?” She touches his jaw, and Gustav startles harder than the tiefling does, “Maud—” But the tiefling is bowing his head, letting her cup his face in her hands and leaning into her touch.

“Come in, come in,” Maud says. “Let me dress you. You’re joining us, yes? Which act?”

That does get a mildly alarmed look in Gustav's direction. “None yet,” Gustav says firmly, following them up the steps and ducking his way into the wagon. “He just needs a few more changes of clothes, to start with.”

Maud’s wagon is a tiny world unto itself – crammed full of clothes racks and fabric and sewing equipment, with just enough space for her bed and a woodstove at the far end. It smells of dust and smoke and is blessedly warm. Gustav does a careful check for pins and then boosts himself onto the edge of Maud’s sewing bench to keep out of the way.

“‘More’ changes of clothes?” Maud asks, wryly. The tiefing’s robes have fallen open in the climb into the wagon, and the tiefling is clearly wearing Gustav’s shirt, the robes, and nothing else. The shirt is long in the front, but still. “Custom trousers first, then, dear?” Maud says, utterly deadpan. The tiefling’s tail lashes back and forth for a moment, and then settles. Gustav isn’t sure if tieflings can blush, but he doesn’t think this one is doing it.

“I’ve got…” Maud is flicking through her costume racks. “I’ve got much too big ones that might do you in the meantime.” She bundles several pairs over her arm and turns back to the two of them. “Take off the --.” She seems to remember that she’s talking someone who’s only just met her. “May I have a proper look at you?” She motions removing the robes. The tiefling shrugs Gustav’s cloak off and starts to fold it.

“Give me that old thing.” Maud goes to swap the robe for the trousers. “I can make you much better than that, and we can salvage some of the scraps for --.”

It’s the first time Gustav actually thinks, _Oh, shit_. The tiefling freezes, his tail going rigid mid-swing, and his eyes narrow. Maud goes still, too. “Or you can keep it,” she amends. The tiefling finishes carefully folding the cloak, and puts it down by his feet. He nods to Maud, an accord of sorts, and then submits calmly to her tape measure and the resumption of her chatter.

“Beautiful bone structure,” she’s murmuring. “Are you going to grow your hair out? Are you more curly or wavy? ” The tiefling stares at her, lips parted around the ghost of a smile, somewhere between overwhelmed and amused, Gustav hopes. Maud glances between Gustav and the tiefling. “Do you have a name, dear?”

The smile slips from the tiefling’s lips. There’s fear there, still, but he seems to have exhausted the panic that went with an internal search. “Empty,” he offers, helplessly.

The glance Maud throws Gustav is sharp; she clearly heard that, but she shrugs with a Maud level of decisiveness. “MT it is,” she declares, and goes back to noting down measurements.

The tiefling is frozen, staring; even his hands are still. "See," Gustav chimes in, trying to figure out how to steer the moment. "I told you we'd come up with something embarrassing."

Maud points her quill at him, not even looking up from her notes. "You shut your mouth, Fletching." Gustav chuckles.

The teilfing is ignoring both of them. His gaze has lowered, his lips parting, but even as Gustv watches, they’re curling up towards a smile. His cheeks are darkening to maroon. Ahh, _that's_ what a tiefling blush looks like, Gustav realizes.

 _MT_ the tiefling mouths to himself, like he's tasting it, and he glances away, and even biting his lip doesn’t stop the delighted grin that’s slowly spreading across the teifling’s face.

~*~

When they emerge from Maud’s vardo the circus crew is sitting around the small fire, awaiting the luxury of a hot lunch and enjoying the weak sunshine. Bo and Yuli shift to give them room to join the circle.

Gustav whistles softly between his teeth. “This here is MT, he’ll be joining us until Harrowthrope. He doesn’t talk much.” Then he sits, casually, and MT follows suit, awkward in the new trousers, but game enough. Bo nods to them and smiles. Everyone else gives varying degrees of acknowledgement – a wave here, a nod there, and then turns back to their own thing. Toya, though…

Toya’s sitting next to Kylre, and she’s leaning forward, watching the tiefling avidly, her hands coming up to hang on to her braids, her own bowl forgotten. Gustav tries not to wince. That’s not great, maybe; she’s not been with them quite long enough to learn the ebb and flow of those who came and stayed, and those who came and went, and those who came and then left forever, and given how fragile she was already…

Gustav catches Kylre’s eye. The lizardman is already watching, and he nods knowingly to Gustav’s expression.

The crew start going up to serve themselves, but MT stays seated, gradually hunching in on himself. Gustav is learning the tiefling’s cues, and still hands means he’s staring at something. It doesn’t take much smarts to figure this one out: the stew pot is steaming hot, and giving of delicious smells. Gustav leans in to murmur near one of MT’s horns. “There’s plenty enough for everyone, including you,” he says. “Go have some.”

MT’s tongue flicks over his lower lip, and then he levers himself up and takes a bowl and exactly one ladleful of stew from the pot. Next in the queue, Mona hesitates, then serves herself only one for once, and Gustav leans on one knee, hiding his grin in his hand.

MT eats ravenously, and is half done by the time Gusav takes his own serve. Gustav eats his own meal while MT sits, head bowed over his now-empty bowl. Gustav steals glances, trying to see if the tiefling is praying or somesuch, but then he notes the hunch, and it clicks. Ah. He tries to think through the intricacies of asking for seconds when you didn’t speak.

“Desmond does our cooking,” Gustav offers, nodding across the circle at him. “If everyone’s had a bowl, and he’s not fiercely guarding the pot for leftovers, it’s pretty safe to go up for seconds.”

MT nods slowly, and silently casts a look around the circle, counting now-empty bowls, Gustav thinks. He still doesn’t move.

Gustav nudges his own empty bowl at MT’s lap. “I’ll have some, too. Thanks.” And that’s enough to get him moving.

MT eats fast but neatly, and scrapes his bowl clean a second time. Then he goes over to Desmond, returns his bowl with a nod of thanks, and motions to offer help with cleanup.

Ornna is sitting, watching this, arms folded, unimpressed.

“See?” Gustav mouths. “Useful.”

“Summer mayfly,” she mouths back. Gustav rolls his eyes, but she hasn’t actually put her foot down yet, and he’s more than willing to leave it at that if she is.

~*~

It’s Kylre who makes the introductions between Toya and MT one rest afternoon near the fire. Gustav is sitting on Maud’s steps, enjoying the sun, and watches from his vantage point as Toya shyly presents the deck of cards to the tiefling.

She’s a fumbling shuffler, but MT smiles patiently as she doles out cards to Kylre, MT, and herself. The game looks to be Pairs – a daring game when two-thirds of the players didn’t speak, and the only verbal one spoke in monosyllables, Gustav thinks. But there’s the sign language between Toya and Kylre, and with Kylre interpreting, MT picks it up quickly. Gustav is too far away and not quite at the right angle to watch their conversation, but before long all three of them are grinning over their cards.

MT wins that first game. Kylre wins the second, Toya-shuffled, hand. Then MT takes the deal, shuffles with surprising deftness, and loses, and loses, and nearly wins until he loses, all with suitable levels of mimed overdramatics. Toya laughs, rough and scratchy and wonderful in the afternoon air. Maud sticks her head out the vardo’s window, and raises a surprised, impressed eyebrow at Gustav. Gustav offers a similarly impressed expression back, and keeps watching.

The trio plays several more rounds before Kylre notices Gustav watching, and eventually coaxes Toya away for singing practise. Gustav moves in, taking Toya’s place on the log and tossing actual coins onto the table.

“Do you know Page’s Rush?” he asks. MT smiles and starts to shuffle.

“Cheat,” Gustav murmurs. “Play to win.” That gets him a sharp look, but MT’s hands fumble only slightly, then resume just as quick and just as deft. MT deals the hand, and Gustav picks his up. Shitty cards, all of them. He grins.

“You were stacking as you shuffled.” Gustav throws in another copper. “I think.” MT grins back, and flips the deck over to point out the scattering of good cards readied at the top of the deck.

“Oh, _very_ good,” Gustav breathes. “Where’d you –” he cuts himself short, but _learn how to do that?_ hangs in the air between them. MT raises both hands in a wry, resigned shrug.

“We should get you a tarot deck and set you up fortune telling,” Gustav says. “No, seriously, don’t scoff. It’s half skilled dealing, half dramatics and letting people talk at an inquiring expression.”

MT looks sideways at Gustav and gestures to himself in vague scepticism. Gustav drops his voice a little. “Toya’s been with us for months now,” he says. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard her laugh, okay? That’s not nothing.”

MT shapes a silent “oh,” and stares down at his cards like they’re the most fascinating things.

They play the round anyway, MT eventually throwing in all the coppers Gustav had given him, but sweeping up Gustav’s newly-added coins in the process. They play many again, passing the deck back and forth for the shuffle, and Gustav still loses two of the three games he deals, and all of the four he doesn’t.

MT eyes the pot doubtfully: many coppers and a couple of silver, all Gustav’s. Gustav adds his now-empty coin purse to the table. “Take it,” Gustav says firmly. “You earned it.”

~*~

The days roll on in the low-level pleasure of travelling, of staying on the move. The circus takes MT’s silence in stride, and he relaxes into them, in turn. He helps Desmond with the cooking, and unsurprisingly turns out to be good at knots and helping to set up camp of an evening. He spends hours with Maud in her vardo.

“Secret sewing business,” is all she’ll tell Gustav, even when he tries to bribe her with his chocolate stash.

Gustav finds himself enjoying the company in the cart during the day. _It’s temporary_ , he tells himself, but he still finds MT’s soft snoring helping him drift off to sleep during the long nights.

~*~

The sun is low in the sky when Harrowthorpe appears on the horizon. As a town, it’s not large; Gustav spies the irregular shape in the distance before the grasslands become tended fields again. MT is napping against one of the bedrolls, snoring lightly and Gustav nudges him awake.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I thought you might want to see.” MT comes forward, interestedly.

“It’s a good enough town,” Gustav says. “A few thousand people, mostly human. We performed here on the way north in spring. You could work here a while to get the coin together for a horse, or join up with another caravan or whatever you liked.”

The query on MT’s face has slid into something more pensive. He wraps his robe tighter, although the chill isn’t that sharp yet. Gustav watches, half forming a question, and then MT tenses alertly. Gustav follows his gaze up the road.

There’s a dust cloud heading towards them, a small number of horses at a hard pace, and then he can see the glint of armor in the red glow of the setting sun.

MT is tensing from alertness into alarm. Gustav isn’t far behind, but he also has the entirety of his circus in his care.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “It’s fine.” He pats MT’s leg, reassuringly. “Let me do the talking on this one.”

MT snickers, and, for just a moment, Gustav’s adrenaline diverts into a flash of delight. Gustav carries that warmth into a smile as the crownsguards approach. The guards do not return the gesture.

“This is a rather royal welcome, no?” Gustav says, desperately trying to remember the name of the head guard in front of him. “It’s good to see you, Dale.” He tries not to make it a question.

Dale was apparently the right answer. The other man gives a slight bow of recognition and raises a gloved hand. “It’s good to see you and your circus, Fletching. We could be using some of your cheer around here at the moment.”

“Things not well?” It’s not that hard to offer concern; there’s no fewer than five crownsguard arraying themselves across the road, politely but thoroughly blocking the caravan’s path.

“Outsiders have been causing mischief and distress, recently. It’s been making our law master stressed, and that makes us stressed in turn. We’re going to need to see the papers for you and your people.”

 _Shit_.

“We have a note of welcome from your very law master, based on our last performance,” Gustav counters. They do,

“That was over a year back,” Dale says. “Times have got harder, since. Law master wants to see the papers of everyone staying in the area.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Gustav says, carefully, because the crownsguards are glaring at MT in a way that said they were already suspicious. MT is mimicking Gustav’s supplication perfectly, with an addition of a politely averted gaze. Gustav doesn’t know what the penalty is for being paperless under this level of scrutiny, but it never pays to have to find these things out.

“My crew all carry their own papers,” Gustav says, gesturing with one hand, giving the crowndsguard movement to attract attention away from MT. “Packed into their own belongings. It will take us some time to gather them all.” That much is true. Everyone’s papers – Empire-issued or Gustav-forged – are with their belongings.

The entirety of MT’s belongings are the clothes on his back and the coin pouch on his belt. Gustav doesn’t look at him. He casts his gaze across the crown’s guard group, instead, making eye contact with each of them.

“It’s getting late. I’m sure you want to go home to your families this evening,” Gustav says, pitching his voice to carry. “And we would like to rest and make camp. I can gather all our papers and bring them to the town hall first thing tomorrow morning. You open at sunup this time of year, yes?”

“Aye,” one of the other guards says. Gustav does not let the wash of relief show on his face. He ducks his head in a nod.

“I shall be at the town hall with all our papers at sunup, then. Agreed?”

Dale grimaces lightly. This is clearly counter to the law master’s orders, but Gustav holds the moment: a deal offered and all but sealed, unless Dale wants to push back against it in its entirety… Gustav’s heart is pounding.

Dale eyes narrow, but he nods, slowly. “Your people will stay out of town until their papers have been checked.”

“Absolutely,” Gustav says.

The guards turn their horses, giving them an escort of sorts towards Harrowthorpe. Gustav shifts closer to MT’s shoulder to murmur. MT gets in first though; he subtly points to himself, and then away across the first of the fields toward the horizon.

“The _hell_ you will,” Gustav mutters. “You’re staying right here with us. I have a few blank papers tucked away.” That gets him a mildly impressed look. “Oh, I was forging you papers, don’t you worry about that. This just gives us a deadline to work to.” Gustav flashes a grin. “I always work better under pressure. I wouldn’t be a very good ringmaster if I couldn’t, now, would I?”

They set up camp in the same area outside town as last year, and before Gustav pitches his tent, he sets about gathering up everyone’s papers for the morning.

“Are we okay here?” Bo asks, handing his over. That’s a question with many possible answers: the _circus_ is fine, but the itch to just keep moving, to dodge whatever clusterfuck Harrowthorpe seems to have fallen into, is so strong. Gustav tries not to grimace. 

“Want me to come with you to the town hall tomorrow morning?” Bo adds. Gustav wants to say no; it’s not like he’s scared of this town, after all. But he doesn’t like the sternness he’d seen in the guards’ eyes. “I could help you lug the supplies back in the cart?” Bo offers. “That way we only need to do one trip into town.”

“Yeah,” Gustav says, gratefully. “That’d be good.” Bo nods, and turns back to wrangling his tent.

He gathers papers from the twins, and Ornna, from Kylre and Toya, from Desmond, who was building their cooking fire, and Maud in her wagon.

“Is MT okay? Are you okay?” she asks. He squeezes her hand gratefully.

“I’m fine,” he says. “And I’ll look after MT.”

It turns out that MT’s busy looking after him; by the time Gustav completes his circle, MT’s carrying their bedrolls into a fully pitched tent.

“Oh, hey, thank you,” Gustav says, surprised and pleased; pitching in the dark was miserable at the best of times. MT ducks his head, but that’s not one of his bashful pleased faces. Gustav frowns, but follows MT towards the fire.

Dinner is the last of their withered vegetables and the last of their dried meats, but Desmond’s done the best he can with it; it’s hot and filling and a godsend after a long day’s travel. MT is only picking at his serve, though, and that’s the first time Gustav’s seen that. He refrains from prying, although he desperately wants to.

After they’ve cleared away dinner, Gustav unearths his little writing table and his quill and parchment set from the cart, and pours more oil for the lamp. He settles in the tent, and sorts the forged identity papers (Kylre, Toya, Desmond, his own) from the legitimate Empire-issued ones. He’s prizing the cover off the writing table when MT crawls back into the tent.

“Here we go,” Gustav murmurs, unfolding the blank identity papers from the hidden compartment. He grins over at MT “Had any thoughts on non-embarrassing names?”

MT doesn’t take the bait; he hunches on his bedroll and rests his chin on his knees instead. Those red eyes are unreadable, but his lips are twisting, his brow creasing. “Empty,” he spits, and it’s a frustrated, tired rasp directed at his own lap.

“Hey, no,” Gustav says, leaning forward, trying to catch MT’s eye. “I know, but we can do this together, okay?” MT rubs his hands over face, but he does meet Gustav’s gaze. He nods, reluctantly, and unfolds somewhat, relaxing enough to sit cross legged.

MT. As initials, it's a good enough place to start as any. Gustav sits back and rubs his palms together. He turns over one of the old flyers and starts doodling with a dry nib to warm and relax his hand.

MT takes Maud's tarot deck from his robe pocket, but his hands are well behind Gustav's in steadiness – he fumbles the shuffle and cards scatter across the tent floor.

Gustav passes back the two cards that landed near his foot. "I was serious about setting you up as our teller," he says, hoping it comes across as musing, not mocking. "But we can't call you Em Tarot Card, now, can we?" He starts dry-writing all the divining bullshit artistry that he knows of: tarot cards, scrying, entrails, tealeaves. He pauses, and dips the quill for the first time.

“Tealeaf’s a good solid name,” Gustav says, eyeing it on the page. “It’s not a tiefling name, I guess, but it’s one you could take with you, if— when—” _When you leave the circus_ hangs in the air between them. MT is scowling. It takes Gustav a moment to realize they’ve drifted into something far more complicated than a yes/no conversation.

"Acceptable as a last name?" Gustav asks, hopefully. MT’s face relaxes, and he nods slowly, consideringly.

M. Tealeaf. They both stare at it on the page for a while. _Crap._ It's been a long time since he’s had to think someone up. Gustav taps the edge of his quill against the paper, thinking hard.

"There's a bird," he says tentatively. "Big thing, ocean-faring, and if they flew with your ship, they'd bring you good fortune; the longer they fly with you, the better your luck. It's taboo to harm them," he adds, thinking of the hard looks the crownsguard had been giving earlier, "lest ill fortune befall the harmer, or their ship." He says it like he's casting a spell, declaring it to the world and the stars beyond.

“Mollymauk,” he says, writing it down on the page. He looks at it, doubtfully. He's not even sure that's he's got the right spelling, for pity's sake, but MT’s head is tilted in thought, and he’s giving a slow, approving nod.

"You can change it, if you want," Gustav says, hurriedly, but MT’s expression is warming into a tolerant, amused smile.

 _Mollymauk Tealeaf._ They regard it for a while. _Okay then._

“Do you like parties?” he asks. MT – Mollymauk – looks at him quizzically. “If you like parties, we can give you a birthday a month from now.” Mollymauk’s smile says he likes that idea, but then he seems to stop and think about it. “You don’t need a specific date, even,” Gustav says. “If you want to be born out of the back of beyond, you can call it a season, or –” Molly opens his mouth, and Gustav hushes, holding his breath hopefully. Words are apparently still too hard; Mollymauk’s mouth compresses into a grimace. He mimes instead, wrapping something invisible around himself, hunching in, miming cold and – _oh_.

“When we found you?” Gustav guesses. Molly nods.

Gustav is going to have to check the ledger to back count that, but sure. “Because you hate parties?” he jokes. Mollymauk shakes his head, but it’s a pensive expression.

“Right then,” Gustav says grandly, rather than let that mood settle in. “You’re … twenty-five?” he offers. Molly shrugs indifferently.

"Okay,” Gustav says, making notes on the back of the flyer. “And where do you hail from, Mollymauk Tealeaf who turned twenty-five some days ago?”

Mollymauk shrugs again, but this time he points at Gustav. “You want me to choose?” Gustav asks. Mollymauk shakes his head, points more insistently at Gustav. “Wait, where am _I_ from?” Gustav’s bark of laughter is involuntary and bitter. “There are so many more illustrious places you could be from, my friend. _Any_ other place than Shady Creek Run, I promise you.”

Mollymauk has returned to a tolerant expression, this one with a slight edge of impatience. Well then. Gustav adds the location to the notes, and then he carefully spreads the other forged papers out on the tent floor, and sets about the lengthy process of creating an entirely different, new style of handwriting.

~*~

The next morning at daybreak, Gustav and Bo stand to polite attention in the law master’s chambers while she pores over the carnival’s papers. She reads each set closely, and then puts Ornna’s and Bo’s aside for particular scrutiny. Mollymauk’s, Toya’s, Kylre’s, and Gustav’s own forged papers are piled to one side with everyone else’s while she pores over the actually legitimate identity papers. Gustav very carefully doesn't look anywhere in particular. She returns them all with a reluctant nod of approval and a warning to keep his crew under tight watch.

Gustav would have been flattered if he hadn’t been so tired.

The trip to the general store does not go quite as well. The shelves have been artfully arranged to appear plentiful with what little is available, but nothing can mask the prices. The human woman behind the counter looks tired and worn down, her jaw clenched with stress.

“Crops been poorly this season?” Gustav asks, aiming for sympathetic.

“Feels like _everything’s_ been going poorly this season,” she says. “We had those goblin scum attacking our farmhouses, and that brought the crownsguards in. But the crownsguard can’t make the crops grow any better than they feel like.”

Goblins. God. That’s more than just “outsiders”. “I’m so sorry,” Gustav says. “That’s an awful run of luck.”

“That it’s been,” she says. 

Bo’s over by one of the shelves recalculating their shopping list on the back of a flyer, grappling with what the prices are doing to their budget. Gustav strolls over to join him, and tries not to hiss aloud at the numbers on his sheet. They’ve already reached deep into the coin hidden in Maud’s vardo for the expected costs, and the prices listed are three times as much. It’s going to be a lean journey to Trostenwald, and that’s just buying food – the cart maintenance will have to wait.

The ride back to the circus is quiet, the cart is much lighter than they'd hoped for. 

The carnival usually draws a small gathering as they move in and set up, and Harrowthorpe, for all its misery, is no exception. The tent is lifting as Gustav and Bo pull in, rising to its full, streamer-bedecked height. The sight never fails to lift something in Gustav’s chest, buoyed this time by the cheering of the kids gathered to watch.

The children are delighted, but the adult of the group is standing with her arms folded, glaring across the ground at his crew. One person in particular, in fact; Gustav follows her gaze, and lands on Mollymauk.

Molly, who even from this distance is visibly closing in on himself, hunching in like he does on some of his worst days. _Oh, you fucker_ Gustav thinks. He passes the reins to Bo and jumps down from the cart. He steadfastly ignores the little crowd and strides over to Molly.

“Hey,” Gustav says softly and catches the guy line before it can slip from Molly’s unsteady grip. “I got you,” Gustav murmurs, and crouches with him to secure the peg. He doesn’t need to glance up – he can feel the woman’s glare on the back of his neck. He leans in instead, and drops a kiss to Molly's forehead. “Anyone gives you shit," Gustav says, "you tell me and I’ll deal with them, yeah?” Molly nods, jerkily.

Gustav stands. He’s wearing a demure, conservative shirt and trousers for their visit to the law master, but he doesn't need his performance outfit to stride across the grass in full ringmaster role; it _feels_ like he's wearing his cloak, and the baring of teeth into a shark-grin flows entirely naturally.

The kids cheer at the sight of him, and he softens his expression into a smile for them, and then rounds on their minder.

"Help you?" he asks.

She holds her ground, and her glare. "That's a devil-born over there," she snaps.

He makes a show of looking over and turning back. "One of our crew is a tiefling, sure." He shapes his expression into neutral interest, and waits. Her expression rolls through indignation and into uncertainty and back into puffed-up outrage.

"That's disgusting," she spits. Adrenaline surges through him, and he tamps the fight instincts down into a shrug. "Each to their own, ma'am."

Her nostrils actually flare with anger. She stammers, trying for a retort, and rebounds off Gustav’s vaguely inquisitive smile. She grabs the kids nearest her and retreats. He schools his parting shot into a nod of polite acknowledgement.

He turns, and turns straight into Ornna.

" _No_ ,” she growls, “I _know_ that look; you want to pack up and leave, right–" He inhales to object. “—Don’t you even _try_ and deny it. You want us to skip out on doing two entire shows because these people don’t like the look of one of your damn strays.”

“They don’t like the look of any of us,” he tries to counter.

Ornna jabs a finger towards Bo, who's strolling towards the tents, apparently unconcerned. “He’s my canary. If Bo’s worried, we’re in actual trouble, and I’ll be hitching up the horses myself to get us out of here." Her face softens, ever so slightly. “It's going to be some shitty nights, we know that. But we also know how to _work_ that, and we damn well need these people’s coin so we don’t starve on the way to Trostenwald.”

Gustav scrubs a hand over his face. "I know," he relents. He glances about, but the crew is busy with the main tent. He drops his voice to deter any eavesdropping.

“We can’t leave him here,” Gustav murmurs. “I know – I _know_ what I said, but they’ll eat him alive here, or run him out of town, or just actually kill him.”

She grimaces. “Not here,” she agrees. She lowers her own voice. “But we can’t keep him. Who on earth's going to take a reading from a mute fortune teller? We can’t afford to feed a dogsbody who’s not bringing in coin of their own.”

“I _know_ ,” he hisses back. “But what’s he going to do in Harrowthorpe?”

“Not our problem, Gustav. You might want to make it yours, but it’s not the _carnival’s_ problem.”

“Just…give him time. Please.” She’s looking pensively at him. “Toya and Kylre worked out great, in the end.”

She grunts, conceding his point, but looks none too happy about it.

“He stays on til Trostenwold.” Gustav is aware it’s more of a plea than a declaration.

“Unless he wants to leave earlier,” Ornna says, and presses her lips together at his wince. “You can’t save every damn person, Gustav.”

 _No_ he wants to spit back. _But I can save this one_. It’s the wrong thing to say – _"There’s never just one!"_ is her aggrieved shout, even in his head.

Someone clears their throat, making Gustav jump.

“We have to prepare for tonight.” It’s Desmond, standing far closer than anyone else had dared while the two of them were fighting. “Bo says this lot might not appreciate our whole underworld theme."

Gustav points to that with mute righteous indignation, not taking his eyes of Ornna. But even as he’s opening his mouth to roll the argument onwards, his mind is working on the problem. Bo’s right. They’re going to need to work their winter outfits into something considerably less spooky than their winter program. The one that they’ve been rehearsing and performing for months. _Dammit._

“Fine,” Gustav says. “Bring everyone in for a meeting, we’re going to need to hash this out.”  
He wheels away and heads back to the cart for his bag, looking around for Mollymauk as he does so.

Molly’s worked his way around the main tent, securing the guy lines with more of his original confidence now that the gawkers are gone.

“Here,” he says, and hands over Molly’s freshly forged papers. “They passed some pretty intense scrutiny,” Gustav says, and flashes a quick, smug grin. “It’s going to be pretty safe to show them off any time they get demanded. Like in Trostenwald.”

Molly startles, and Gustav barrels on like it’s a fait accompli. “Bigger town, better job prospects, fewer jerks.” He tries for a conspiratorial grin. 

Molly folds his papers, and tucks them into his robes, leaving Gustav hanging for cruel seconds, then he raises an eyebrow and gestures around the campsite with an impressively sardonic expression.

“Okay, fair,” Gustav says, rolling it into a joke. “But travelling with us _does_ mean fewer jerks than staying in Harrowthorpe – we’ve got less people all up. Better the jerks you know, right?”

Molly grins, but it’s enigmatic. The rest of the crew are gathering around the cold firepit.

“Think about it.” Gustav tries to make it a casual suggestion. “C’mon, we’ve got a meeting to go to.”

~*~

“Is it _safe_ to perform tonight?” Desmond’s arms are folded, and he’s pacing a few steps back and forth, thinking hard, tapping his fingers against his arms like he wants to be playing.

“Yes,” Bo and Ornna say the same moment Gustav says “Maybe.”

“Fine,” Desmond says, turning his gaze on Gustav. “What tips us from a maybe to a yes?”

“We need a different framing for the acts, something closer to our summer show, less about evil bubbling up from below.” He nods towards Yuli and Mona. “Can you switch out your contortionist set for your juggling on an afternoon’s rehearsing?” Yuli looks affronted at his doubt, and Mona shrugs an _of course_. Gustav smiles and nods his respectful thanks.

Toya boosts herself onto Kylre’s knee to whisper in his ear, and then she slips down to the ground to play with her cards.

“Bo and Ornna, you’re probably fine,” Gustav says, running through his mental set list.

“Toya sing first act,” Kylre announces. “Alone. I get night off.” He shrugs, like this was a treat rather than a way to avoiding getting rocks thrown at him.

“You sure you’re okay with that, kid?” Ornna asks her, gently. “It’s a big ring when you’re used to performing opposite someone.”

Toya gives a one-shouldered shrug, blushing a little under the attention. “It’s okay,” she whispers.

“We can spot you, if you like,” Gustav murmurs. Ideas are slowly starting to percolate. “We could fill the whole ring with crew, if you want…”

~*~

They fill barely half the hoped-for seats that evening, and Gustav can feel the flatness in the atmosphere the moment he steps through the performers’ entrance. People are finding places to sit, but even during Desmond’s entrance descent, the audience murmurs, distracted and disengaged. At least hecklers gave them something to riff off. This was more like performing to a wall that would swallow his echo. Fine. He was performing to an empty arena, then. He was performing to Molly, who was just outside the performers’ entrance, peeking in; performing for himself, to prove that he could, like he did in the early days when they were running shows on the street.

Desmond uses the bow movement of his last few notes to raise the ring lights to blue, approximating the daytime sky. He bows low to scattered applause and retreats as Gustav sweeps forward to take his place in the center of the ring.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Harrowthorpe,” he shouts. “I am carnival master Gustav Fletching. Allow me to welcome you back to the Fletching and Moondrop’s travelling carnival of curiosities! We bring you a special performance this eve! Grant us your imaginations, if you will…” He can do the spiel in his sleep, even with the rejigged script. Mostly he’s focused on the faint creaking of harnesses, and the shifting in the canopy above. He patters until Desmond dims the lights, dropping them from blue into actual dimness.

Gustav drops his voice, makes it an intimate invitation. “Tonight,” he says, “we bring you an angel, sent down to be a messenger of hope and redemption, if only we knew how to listen.”

Desmond holds the dimness for a few beats, enough to make the human audience hush in the darkness, and then he raises the lights into a golden glow as Toya, suspended between the lamps in the canopy, starts to sing.

Gustav’s heard the full impact of her voice hundreds of times, but it still makes him catch his breath a moment, every time. Bo lowers her smoothly, and Gustav keeps his face tilted up in case she needs a friendly face below, but she’s giving it her all, eyes closed, half bewitching even herself, maybe.

She’s certainly working her magic on the audience. There’s not a rustle or a murmur to be heard, and by the time her feet touch the ground he can hear people sobbing. The light timing is perfect: Desmond darkens the ring on her final note, and there’s a beat of inswept breath, and then, even with only half an audience, the applause feels thunderous.

Gustav unhooks her from her safety harness and hugs her fiercely in the dark. 

“You were glorious, darling, thank you,” he whispers, and she squeezes back and then dashes on light feet for the performers’ entrance and the changeover. Gustav raises his arms for the lights, and patters for Mona and Yuli. The applause is warm this time, interested, and Gustav bows out of the ring, letting the sisters take the floor.

He slips through the tent flaps into the brisk night air. Everyone not preparing for their acts – and several who should be – are huddled around Toya, beaming at her and whispering congratulations. Slightly off to one side, Molly is standing utterly still, dazed, tears still trickling down his face.

“I know,” Gustav says, clasping his shoulder. “She got every single one of us like that, first time. You get used to it, eventually.” Molly shakes his head slowly, wonderingly. _My god_ he mouths, and Gustav fancies there's a breath of voice there. Gustav squeezes Molly’s shoulder. “I know.”

The next night, they fill the tent to capacity and have to turn people away at the entrance.

The hubhub of their closing night flows into closing night celebratory drinking once the audience have returned home, which rolls into a fumbling, bleary-eyed pack down the next morning. Gustav’s running on ringmaster pack-down rote all the way up until he returns to take down their – his – tent, and finds it – and Mollymauk – gone. Grief confusion smashes into his hangover confusion and Gustav turns in place, trying to _think, dammit_ and it takes an embarrassingly long time to twig and head for the cart. Mollymauk has stowed Gustav’s things with neat efficiency and is boosting himself up into the cart and sitting on the bench seat, waiting for Gustav.

Molly looks like he’s barely suffering, damn him, but Gustav’s relief bubbles up as a wild, giddy laugh that even this hangover can’t dent. Riding out of Harrowthorpe with Molly at his side makes it feel like the best damn morning he’s ever had.

~*~

They continue south. The cloak vanishes from around Molly’s shoulders one morning, and then reappears some hours later spread over the back of Maud’s vardo, drying into a brilliant, freshly-dyed red. It’s the same afternoon that Molly emerges from Maud’s wagon wearing his first pair of custom-made trousers – two different blue-patterned legs, and a pair of very nice boots to cap it off. Gustav is more than a little jealous of the boots, third-hand or not.

“Looking _very_ fine,” Gustav says. “That’s some treasured fabric she’s given you there. She likes you.” Molly manages to roll his eyes by facial expression alone, and wanders off, grinning to himself and flexing his tail triumphantly.

~*~

The circus far enough south that it's a sunny, nearly-warm afternoon when Mona and Yuli sneak aboard the cart. They're nearly stealthy about it, aside from the snickering. Molly's been embroidering his robe in the back of the cart, and Gustav can get the gist of their three-way conversation, even with only two sides audible.

"And what are the rules about juggling on the road?" Gustav calls without turning around.

"Caravan's not stopping if we drop any," Mona drones. "We have to go get whatever we drop."

"'Cause you're _mean_ ," Yuli sings, not quite under her breath.

Molly snorts. Gustav looks back over his shoulder. Molly has folded his cloak embroidery aside, and is holding three of Mona's purple juggling balls in one long-fingered hand. He and Molly share a flash of a grin.

"Hey," Gustav says grandly. "If you want to be silly enough to try and teach someone to juggle while we're on the move, you need to be responsible for the inevitable consequences." He thinks Molly's going to do rather better than either of the twins did while they were learning, but he does slow the cart a tad, just in case.

It's a quietly wonderful way to spend an afternoon – listening to giggling and soft swearing and louder cheers. It's a whole half an hour before someone slips over the side of the cart. Gustav looks back, and Mona's weaving her way back through the line. Molly is sitting, grinning, all three juggling balls in front of him. When Mona returns, she’s lugging their full act bag over her shoulder.

Clubs are trickier – there’s a lot more thudding as Molly drops them, and the occasional flash of purple and red as Molly vaults out of the cart on a retrieval mission.

By the time they stop for the night, Molly is keeping four clubs in the air and looking very pleased with himself. At the fire, Desmond offers his set of prop swords to Molly, accompanied by the rest of the crew’s interested laughter, and “Cleric! We’re going to need a cleric, here!”

“They’re not _particularly_ sharp,” Desmond says, grinning.

Molly tests the balance of the blades, sends one spinning up in the firelight, and catches it with a satisfied nod. Bo appears with his drum, and starts up a soft, mercifully slow beat. Molly tosses sword one repeatedly, learning the length, and then adds another, and Desmond joins in with his violin and the rest of the crew picks up the song and cheers along as Molly fixes his gaze upwards, intent, a fierce grin of concentration spreading across his face as the blunt blades rise and fall, rise and fall, flashing in the firelight.

~*~

They arrive in Trostenwald near midday some days later, and the afternoon is a flurry of setting up the main tent. The gaggle of genuinely excited children – and smiling, pretending-to-be-put-upon adults – who come to watch the raising is a welcome relief after Harrowsthorpe.

They point and gape at Molly, but it might just as well be at his robes that are now covered with symbols and the jewellery Maud has adorned his horns with, as much at as his tail and his purple skin. He play it up regardless, with a swagger in his step and a gleam in his eye. He starts off casually juggling the three swords, feigning surprise at the audience’s cheering. He switches to six balls when the kids start creeping closer, and lets the toddlers try to “catch” his tail, until an older boy tries to _grab_ it, and he leaves that kid stumbling in the dust, to the rumbling approval of the adults.

He seeks out the children in ragged clothes and plucks coppers from their ears. _It’s yours,_ he mimes innocently, refusing to take back the coin. _It was in your ear._ He challenges the older kids to duels with his prop swords, and fights and “dies” dramatically many times over, to the shrieking delight of the surrounding children.

“He’s going to be insufferable when he finally opens his mouth.”

Gustav glances down in surprise. Ornna’s by his elbow, glaring at the scene.

“Probably,” Gustav agrees. “He’s going to fit right in.”

Ornna snorts. “Probably,” she mutters, and walks away. It’s the closest she’s ever come to admitting he might be right, and Gustav carries that warm glow of triumph all the way into the ring that evening, and basks in the audience’s wild applause.

~*~

Mornings after a show are slow. Desmond and Gustav count the night’s takings and start assigning them to all the expenses they’d not been able to cover in Harrowthrope: cart maintenance, tent repairs, more food for them and the horses, and then on to everyone’s spending money.

Gustav considers his own small pile of coppers and silvers, and separates out some of the copper into its own pouch.

He finds Molly hanging wet clothes on the circus’s impromptu washing line.

“Hey,” Gustav calls. “Catch!” Molly plucks the pouch out of the air. “Your earnings,” Gustav supplies as Molly opens it. “For your pre-show entertaining.” Molly looks up with surprised pleasure and mouths “thank you”.

Gustav grins back at him. “Can I suggest an excellent thing to do with your first proper wages?”

~*~

The Warm Dew Bathhouse is far more upmarket than Gustav’s sources had made out.

Gustav and Molly are dressed as non-descriptly and as well as Maud can provide, but they’re still a half-elf and a tiefling walking into the richest parts of a mostly-human city. Gustav lets the haughty self-possession of the ringmaster ask for directions, and it gets them to the small, manicured front garden of the Warm Dew Bathhouse.

Gustav hesitates half a beat on the marble steps, mentally weighing his purse against what was said to be the only bathhouse in town and trying not to grimace. He can probably cover Molly using their silvers and have to attend an appointment elsewhere; he pushes the door open and enters the foyer.

There’s an attendant straightening already impeccable shelves behind an equally impeccable counter. The smell of lavender oil and the _violinist_ playing somewhere out of sight may as well have already priced them out on their asses.

“Good morning,” Gustav says, still as the ringmaster, before he can lose his nerve. “Is there space free in your communal baths at this hour?”

There’s no price list, there’s no way of telling if they _have_ a communal bath, but the young man glances reflexively down at an empty column in the ledger on the counter, so that’s a yes, even before the youth offers a polite, solicitous smile.

“There is, sir. How long would you like?”

He had been going to ask for a half-hour for Mollymauk, but his mind snags on the lilt under the polite, neutral words, and Gustav _looks_ at the young man behind the counter. There’s the simple finery of his clothes and his manicured hands, but Gustav also sees the gaunt cheeks, and the slight sallowness of his skin. Trostenwald is a long way away from Shady Creek Run, but that level of early deprivation leaves it mark; Gustav knows it as well as he knows the backs of his own bony hands.

“Brother,” Gustav murmurs, sincerely, not even sure what he’s going to say next. The man blinks, and then his smile warms into something shy and genuine. He glances between Molly and Gustav.

“Are you from the circus?” he asks. “My sister saw your performance last night, said it was amazing.”

Molly flourishes the tiniest of bows. Gustav grins. “Thank you. Would you like to see the show tonight? We have a limited number of complimentary tickets, if you’d like one.” This is a _lie_ , but Gustav is absolutely willing to garnish his own wages in the name of currying favour with the only bathhouse in town.

The young man hears it, and his expression shifts from shy to surprised, and then into pleased. He makes a show of checking the ledger. “The communal bath is empty, actually. It doesn’t tend to get patronage until lunchtime. You can have it to yourselves for an hour for two silvers, if that suits.”

There is no way on god’s green earth the actual price is that low. Gustav takes two silvers from his purse and pays without even glancing at Molly. “That would suit us admirably, thank you.”

The youth leads them down the corridor and gestures them into the changing area. “The common baths are through the doorway. You’ll find towels and bathing attire as you require in the alcoves.”

The attendant politely withdraws, and Gustav has a moment of great hesitation. What if Molly hated water? What if he didn’t want to –

Molly strides past the little modesty rooms, already shrugging off the black cloak and dragging his shirt over his head, making straight for the baths. What if it was fine, Fletching? Gustav thinks scathingly to himself, and hurries to catch up.

The communal bath of the Warm Dew Bathhouse is small but exquisitely appointed. A pale tiled floor becomes steps that drop down into a steaming pool of scented water that spans almost the entire room.

Molly is already naked, his clothes and boots piled on a ledge nearby, and is striding into the water as Gustav is fumbling with his own cloak. Molly wades into the waist-high water and, with the barest of hesitations, leans in and pushes himself under the surface. He comes up almost immediately, breathing hard, and then takes another breath and plunges under again, this time scrubbing at his scalp and horns.

 _Not afraid of water, then,_ Gustav chides himself, and turns away, busying himself with the rest of his clothes.

“Gustav,” The rasp is the same as every _empty_ Molly has whispered over the last few weeks, but there’s a smile in this one. “ _Thank_ you.”

Gustav stills, mid-folding his shirt. For a beat, he just freezes in wonder. But, well, _deal with what’s in front of you_. “You’re very, very welcome,” he says.

When he turns around, Molly is floating on his back, head tipped back on the pool ledge, eyes closed and face slack with bliss.

Gustav wades in as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. It’s nearly too hot in a way that’s going to settle into perfect in a minute. He drops to his knees to settle in to chin-height, and groans as the heat loosens his muscles.

“Yeah,” Gustav says, agreeing with his own life choices for once. “This. Every town that’s got one, every time you can afford it.”

“Or talk your way into.” Molly’s voice is rough from disuse, but he’s grinning.

“Or that,” Gustav agrees. He shifts, sitting on the tiled underwater ledge and tilting his head back to gaze at the mosaicked ceiling.

The silence – not something he’s needed to worry about with Molly before now – stretches, and Gustav decides to let it go. He closes his eyes, choosing to be content if Molly wanted to spend the whole hour in silence. He’s half drifting off, in fact, when Molly makes a tiny sound.

“I keep thinking…” Molly whispers. Gustav opens his eyes turns his head as unobtrusively as possible. Molly has his head tilted back against the ledge, his eyes open, gazing up at the ceiling. That searching terror is there again, and this time there are sentences to go with it. “Thinking there’s going to be _something_ ,” he says, thickly. “Something that says who I was. – who –“ He falters, helplessly.

Gustav averts his gaze to the water’s surface. He’s been preparing for something like this, or for Molly to have up and vanished one day. This was better.

“I don’t know who you were either,” Gustav says. Molly flicks a glance at him. “But I like who I see. I see a person who pitches in with whatever needs doing. I see someone who is kind to kids, and wants to learn, and who’s quick on their feet. Who is fiercely fair and loyal. I see a member of my circus crew.”

Molly’s lips part, and there’s a long, searching pause while he tries to find the words.

“Thank you,” he says. It still feels like a miracle, but even as new as this is, Gustav can hear something under it. He waits.

“I don’t—” Molly grimaces, and gestures to the scars on his chest, to the red tattoos. “—know what these are. If they’re something that might bring bad things for you, or Desmond, or…” He falters. 

“There’s plenty of my life I never want to see again, too,” Gustav offers. He flashes a quick grin. “That’s why Desmond and I started a circus.”

Molly looks up with startled respect. Gustav nods to that with a smile. “It’s hard to have things catch up with you when you never stop moving.

“And maybe you remember something, and you need to go off and –“

“ _No_.” The vehemence in Molly’s voice derails him for a moment.

“Hey, maybe you do need to leave awhile to go off and do something later, and that’s fine; you come and go as you please.”

Molly digests this. “Why?”

“Why do anything?” Gustav parries, reflexively. Molly just blinks at him, patiently.

For Toya, he’d offered comfort and family. For Kylre, security and community: good, solid, _true_ reasons tailored to each of their newest members. He’d thought of belonging and discovery for Mollymauk, but he’d been utterly unprepared to see a vision of home in the bathhouse attendant, -- to see someone who’d made it _out_ \-- that what slips from his mouth is his own truth.

“There were an awful lot of things I wanted to leave behind when we started the circus. There were several people I wanted to bring with us. Most of them…” Guilt and grief rises up as an ache from his chest, thickening his words. “Weren’t able to take us up on the offer, in the end.” He closes his eyes for a breath, and then another, until he got some semblance of control.

“It didn’t feel fair,” he says, and his voice nearly holds. “I don’t think it’s ever going to feel fair. But now, if someone looks like they want to join us for a fresh start, I try and find a way to let them.”

Molly’s lips part, but the silence that follows feels perfectly appropriate.

“Whoever you were,” Gustav says softly. “That doesn’t matter to me, or to the circus. I like who I see. I like who you _are_ , Mollymauk Tealeaf.”

Molly’s smile is tremulous, his eyes suspiciously bright, but he nods. “Thank you,” he breathes, thickly.

Gustav smiles and averts his gaze, giving Molly space. They are going to have an hour of bliss, and then they’re going go back out to this town’s performances, and then all the performances in all the towns to follow. Together.

He closes his eyes, letting himself float, and his chest lifts with a quiet, deep joy.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'd been writing this for many, many weeks, adjusting for canon as best I could and eyeing the M9 nervously as they got closer and closer to Shady Creek Run. And, well. Ways that I thought ep26 was going to possibly mess up my fic? NOT LIKE THAT. Anything but that. God.


End file.
